A Vision in a Dream
by LadyDivine91
Summary: Struggling songwriter Blaine Anderson is trapped in a dull job writing jingles while trying to compose the one song that will help him break into the music business. He's on the verge of giving up when a chance encounter in a local park changes everything ... and nearly gives him a concussion. Klaine. Kurt H. Blaine A.
1. When Worlds Collide

**A/N: So, yeah, this is the story I wrote for the klainesummerchallenge 2016. Better late than never. Inspired by the movie Xanadu. This is twelve chapters total. The first chapter is for the prompt 'park'.**

" _Dum, dum, dum, dum_ … no. _Dum-dum de dum-dum_ … no." Blaine taps his toe, trying to find a groove with the rhythm tickling his head, but he can't get the two to sync up. The song he's been forcing himself to write sounds like it's in 4/4 time when he hums it, but his body insists it's in ¾ time. He should go with his body over his head, trust his instincts instead of thinking it to death, but his attempts at giving himself up to intuition over intellect are becoming frustrating. He's been pounding away at this song since _high school_. As far as he's concerned, it's _the one_. It's been niggling his brain, flowing through his veins, and bubbling in his stomach for most of (what he can call) his musical career, entirely formed and just waiting to be put down on paper.

So why can't he write it!?

He scowls at the sheet of manuscript paper on his lap, the lines written over and erased so many times that a few bars are absent, the page worn in spots where his pencil has ripped through, causing him to jot a few notes on the thigh of his khakis. " _Dum, dum-de, dum_ … no. _Dum, dum, de-dum, dum_. No! Dammit, dammit, _dum-de-dum dammit_!"

Blaine snaps his head back and stares up at the sky above, taking a deep breath to clear his muddled head. He can just barely make out the thread of music that he's been attempting to write, hidden underneath something else he's been working on for the toilet cleanser account that's supposed to be paying his rent. As Blaine tries his best to lure the strain out from the nether, it mixes with the tune he's composing for Lysol's newest campaign, and the two jumble together in an unpleasant, unoriginal soup.

Blaine hates writing jingles, loathes them with every fiber of his being. When his brother suggested it as a stepping stone to mainstream songwriting, Blaine thought it a good idea. A foot in the door. At the very least, what harm could it do?

What it _did_ was quell his natural creativity. Instead of thinking in terms of rich, complex melodies and dramatic, heart-thumping basslines, every song that pops into his head is a catchy, upbeat knock-off of his more original work.

And it's killing him.

Unfortunately, he won't be able to go back later on and re-work those jingles into the songs they were meant to be. Once he sells the rights to them, that's it. They're no longer _his_ in the legal sense. He'd be looking at huge series of lawsuits if he did.

If he has to write another jingle, if he has to bastardize another one of his songs, he's going to rip his face off.

As it is, if he doesn't find a way to make his big break, he'll be living off of the lifetime supply of dog food he got as a perk from his last jingle … for the dog he doesn't even own.

But after spending the last few years since graduating Oberlin carving a living out of peppy, nauseating ear-worms, he swore this Lysol jingle would be the last one. He should be excited that he's about to break free into the solo career he's been dreaming of, but he can't even pen his first song. He feels backed up against a wall – no way of going forward, but with no want to return to his roots.

Not moving forward, not going back. That makes him pretty much stuck where he is, and not just in Ohio, but in this park. He better get comfy on this bench, because when he can't pay his rent, that's where he'll be sleeping from now on.

At least he'll have dog food to eat.

He glares at the crumpled manuscript paper, and the mess of notes he'd hoped would magically become his first great hit while he was busy feeling sorry for himself. In his right frontal lobe, where his sanity had started to slowly drip away, a blockade to depression that he'd been futilely patching with positive thoughts and inspirational clichés crumbles.

And he starts to lose it.

"Forget it!" Blaine mutters, angrily tearing the sheet of music into pieces. "Just forget it! This is useless! So frickin' useless!" He rips the paper again and again, each individual little piece until it's a fraction of what it once was. At this point, watching his hard work torn to shreds doesn't even break his heart, the feeling of decimating it with his own bare hands so satisfying. He knows that later on, he'll look back at this moment and weep, but not over the loss of this one sheet of paper and the work it represents.

But because of how thoroughly he's given up on his dream.

"I am so _done_! I'm never going to write anything worth listening to! I'm going to spend the rest of my pathetic life writing shampoo commercials and dog food jingles! This is not the life I want!"

Luckily, the park at this hour is fairly empty. The people who _are_ there, jogging along the path that winds past his bench, have their headsets on and their eyes trained ahead, more focused on their workouts than on the rantings of a furious _ex_ -songwriter.

Maybe he should give in and work at his father's office. Sure, he'd start off at the bottom, sorting mail and picking up coffee, but eventually he'd become partner – after a decade or so. He'd have a career, a stable income …

… a future.

But can he go backwards _and_ go forwards at the same time? He doesn't see how that's possible. The point of following his passion was to pave his own way, make a mark on the world that the Anderson family has never made.

But, most importantly, he had wanted to be true to himself.

Working for his father is security, yes, but it's also the easy way out.

And if he takes it, he sees himself hating his life every day until he dies.

 _Okay, Blaine, you're being a little overdramatic,_ he thinks, considering the squares of paper in his hands. _You're only twenty-six. Your life isn't over yet. Nowhere near it. You don't need to be a famous songwriter to love your life or pave your own way. You can be a teacher, or a doctor, or … or a something. You've got time. You've got options. Not becoming a songwriter … that isn't the end of the world._

Blaine sighs as he thinks it. No, it isn't the end of the world.

But it sure as hell feels like it.

He stands from the park bench, the papers in his hands weighing him down as he rises to his feet, the gravity of what he's just done, what he's just decided, doing its best to pull him under. But he can't let it. He can't let setbacks ruin his life. _Move forward_. That's been his mantra since high school. When he'd lost opportunities, when his brother moved away, when his parents got divorced, when he was bullied so badly he had to switch schools: move forward, he always told himself. Don't look back.

So he doesn't look at the scraps of sheet music as he tosses them into the trash.

Because that would be the same as looking back.

He takes one step away, then another, till he's practically storming off, figuring that if he keeps going, he'll figure it out. He'll find a solution to his problem. He'll think of that one other thing he could do for the rest of his life that won't feel like a prison sentence, which is difficult seeing as being a songwriter is literally the only thing he's wanted to be for as far as he can remember.

Or he'll walk all the way to New York, change his name, become a vagrant, and disappear.

Either way, problem solved.

Loyal to his mantra, he doesn't look back at the bench where he was seated moments ago, so he doesn't see the pieces of his manuscript lift from the trash can, spiraling as if caught by a small cyclone, and blow away with the breeze.

He also doesn't see the man wearing bright white shorts and a white tank-top barreling in his direction; chestnut-colored hair and pale, freckled skin glowing beneath the afternoon sun; skating down the jogging path on gold pinstriped rollerblades; traveling so fast that he wouldn't be able to stop in time if he tried.

And he doesn't try.

He seems to be aiming for Blaine, sea-blue eyes locked on him like a target.

The man doesn't bump into Blaine. He _crashes_ into him, like a bolt of lightning zipping down from the sky. The collision reverberates through Blaine, makes everything from the soles of his shoes to his back teeth vibrate with its intensity. But, astoundingly, he doesn't fall to the ground. He absorbs the hit. It goes straight through him, filling him in a way he couldn't describe if he had to.

He should be in pain, but all he feels is _heat_.

He turns to see what hit him, and is confounded to discover himself wrapped inside another person's arms.

"Wh-what the …?" Blaine stutters. " _Hey_!"

The man doesn't respond, staring shamelessly into his shocked gaze. Blaine can't decipher the expression on the man's face, nor his shy but confident smile. He doesn't appear angry, or scared, or the least bit repentant.

Oddly enough, he looks like he's been waiting to crash into Blaine his entire life.

"Hey," Blaine repeats in a softer voice. "Are you … are you all right?"

The man nods, running a single hand up Blaine's spine till it comes to rest at the base of his skull. Without a word, the man leans forward and kisses him. The touch of his lips is electric, an actual spark crackling across Blaine's skin before the man goes deeper. Blaine doesn't object. He can't think to; he doesn't want to. This has to be the most exciting, most mesmerizing kiss Blaine has ever shared with anyone, and with a total stranger … even if the man doesn't exactly act like it.

The man doesn't pull away when he finishes kissing Blaine, lingering within the reach of his mouth as if he belongs there.

"Who … who are you?" Blaine asks, grasping for the chance that he might know him, that this might not be the beginning and end of some random occurrence, but picking up where something from his past left off.

The man shakes his head, smiling playfully. "Don't lose your head," he whispers in a voice so beautiful, so unmistakable, Blaine knows he's never heard it before in his life. He presses one more kiss to Blaine's lips, too quick to even qualify as a peck, then takes off, flying down the jogging path like a streak of pure energy. Blaine spins to watch him, but he skates too fast. If Blaine didn't know better, he might have sworn he saw a trail of light behind him.

Blaine opens his eyes wide to track him, but in a single blink, he's gone, all gorgeous eyes, vintage skates, soft lips, and golden trail of him. The man evaporates out of sight before he hits the bend, and suddenly, Blaine's head is filled with music.


	2. Wet Behind the Ears

**A/N: Written for the prompt 'ice cream parlor'.**

"I was wondering where you'd run off to yesterday afternoon. Just tell me one thing - are you overdoing the Sudafed again?" Santana, Blaine's roommate, asks, as she licks around the outside of her vanilla ice cream cone, stemming a stream of drips before they can make their way to her fingers. "Because you know what that stuff does to you."

Santana's presence in Blaine's life has been a relatively recent one. When he'd made up his mind to quit the jingle biz cold turkey after his final ad and devote all of his time and effort into launching his solo career, he figured he might need a little help covering the bills. Not right away. He was fiscally responsible, and had a decent amount of money saved up for a rainy day. Since he tried to live frugally, and had no social life to speak of, he actually had enough money saved up to pay his rent and his bills for about five years' worth of monsoons.

But he likes to plan ahead, and that's where Santana came in.

Admittedly, Blaine doesn't know too much about her other than she was the first, and only, person who answered the ad for a roommate that he'd posted on Oberlin's student bulletin board, which was strange since she didn't actually _attend_ Oberlin. She didn't have an explanation for that. She simply dropped into his life out of the blue, kind of like the man on the rollerblades.

Maybe that was going to become a trend in his life now. He'd never had much luck making friends through conventional methods, so now the ones he'll have will just drop out of the sky like errant seed pods.

What he _does_ know about Santana is she's finishing up some courses at a local university … and trying hardcore to get into the pants of some blonde in one of her classes. Blaine has only met the target of Santana's affections a handful of times. He thinks her name is Beverly, or Brittany - something along those lines. They usually hang out at her place, whoever she is. At first, Blaine feared this relationship would deprive him of his new roommate sooner than he'd planned, but Santana assured him she wouldn't do anything without giving him two months' notice first, and seeing as she paid the deposit he'd asked for, along with her first two months in advance, he had no reason not to take her at her word.

As long as he didn't have to listen to them moaning through the walls, find panties in his laundry hamper, or walk in on them doing it, he was more than supportive of their budding relationship.

It was because of one of their sleepovers that this was the first opportunity Blaine had had to talk to Santana. He'd invited her out to lunch, but when they couldn't decide between burgers or pizza, they skipped to the end and went out for ice cream instead.

"I have allergies, alright?" Blaine replies defensively, embarrassed by the mention of his last foray into over-the-counter medications, when he took one too many, followed by an unintended sip of beer, and hallucinated that he was Ben Vereen for three hours in the waiting room of the ER. "I'm using the correct dosage as indicated on the package … Santana!" he whines when she rolls her eyes. "I'm not high on antihistamines! He's _real,_ okay? I saw him."

"Right. _A mysterious sun-kissed Adonis who skates like the wind_ ," she teases, quoting his words back at him. "You know, I think you should consider quitting music altogether and start writing Harlequin Romance novels. You have quite the knack for cheesy turns-of-phrase."

"I know he's real, Santana, because I … I touched him. Or rather, _he_ touched _me_."

Santana stops eating mid-lick and raises a startled brow. "He did?"

"Yeah." Blaine sighs dreamily. "In fact … he kissed me."

Santana stares at Blaine in disbelief while Blaine's mind drifts off into hazy thoughts of yesterday when that man's lips met his. After that, Blaine couldn't hear anything over the music in his head – songs, lullabies, symphonies, like none he could recall hearing before. But as he walked home, trying to make sense of what had happened, he realized that the music he was hearing was every song he'd ever conceived, most of which he'd never written down or performed, save for one simple melody that he'd plucked out on his toy guitar for his mother when he was eight.

Santana laughs. It kind of erupts out of her, as if what Blaine said was the most impossible thing she's ever heard. He scowls at her, at her blasphemous laughter besmirching his beautiful memory, and she puts up a hand in surrender.

"Okay, okay. So you have a secret admirer who ding-dong-kiss-and-ditched you. What are you going to do about it?"

"Well, after we're done here," Blaine starts, looking pointedly from his own empty dish of ice cream to her barely half-eaten cone, "I'm going back to that spot in the park and wait him out."

"A-ha. And the rollerblades are for …?"

Blaine shifts his feet underneath the table at the mention of the skates on his feet. They're not the best fit. They were the last pair available at Dick's Sporting Goods, and, unfortunately, they're a half size too big, which makes his feet lean in every time he tries to stand up. Coupled with the fact that the last time he went rollerblading, he was ten, this may not be the most practical – or _safe_ \- plan.

It's not that Blaine's a klutz. He's actually quite athletic; even back then he was. For a year before his tenth birthday, Blaine had wanted to try his hand at extreme sports. His father had already gotten him involved in boxing, but Blaine thought that rollerblading would put him over the top. He could learn all sorts of tricks and show them off at school. Then he might be more popular. It's not like he could show off his boxing skills at school.

That would just get him sent to the principal's office.

He'd started out fine skating down the driveway of his house. But when he reached the end, he tripped over a crack and took flight, soaring across their narrow, residential street like an albatross. That was cool for about 4-point-3 seconds. Then he landed, on his side, sandwiching his arm between the cement and his body, breaking his wrist.

Blaine gulps hard when a phantom pain shoots up his arm and radiates throughout his entire body, making his head go cold and his brain momentarily numb. But he doesn't have any better ideas, so this is the one he has to go with for now.

And pray he doesn't end up back in the ER.

"When I see him, I'm going to chase him down."

"And then what?"

"Well, I … I'm going to ask him for an explanation as to why he kissed me." He had actually hoped that the man might kiss him again, but he feels that admitting that might make him seem creepy. "At the very least, I'm going to try and get his name."

"Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"Why? Do you think that maybe he doesn't _want_ me to talk to him? That he regrets what he did, and he doesn't want to see me again?"

"No. But you don't look too steady in those things. You don't even have a helmet. You almost fell waiting in line for your ice cream and took out the three people standing in line behind us. If you kill yourself, I'm going to have to flip all the bills by myself until I find a new roommate."

"Nice."

"Hey. If you're going to put your life on the line after one kiss, I have the right to plan for the inevitable. Speaking of which, what's your blood type?"

Blaine scrunches his face in disgust. "Why in the world do you want to know that?"

"For your organ donor card. I know you don't have one. It's the responsible thing to do. Also, I'm taking out a life insurance policy on you."

"Man. You're really covering all your bases."

"A girl's gotta be prepared."

"Right. Well, while you're preparing for my demise, I'm going to toss my trash, and then we can walk over there," Blaine says, giving Santana a hint.

"Not until I finish my ice cream, hobbit," she says, not taking it. "I'm not dripping ice cream all over my new Manolo Blahniks."

Blaine slides to the end of the bench and turns his legs out. With a few deep breaths and a silent negotiation with God, he hoists himself to his feet. The skates beneath him roll forward and backward at alternating angles, almost forcing him back into his seat, but with a little help from the wobbly edge of the table, he keeps his balance. Encouraged, he gives himself a small push and rolls over to the trash can by the front door. He shoves his empty cup in, then checks the time on his phone. It's nearly one o'clock, roughly the same time he met his mystery man yesterday. If they don't get a move on, they might miss him.

Blaine looks out of the large windows that line the front of the ice cream parlor. The park is across the street, the spot where Blaine usually sits about a football field's length away, but what if the man doesn't pass by this way when he goes into the park? Of course, there's always the chance that he doesn't skate here every day. What if he's not even from around there? What if he's just visiting, and he's already gone? On a plane or a train bound for who knows where? That could be reason enough to kiss a random stranger. If you mess up and kiss the wrong person, that's okay, because you never have to see them again.

But what about that look in his eyes? As if he'd been searching for Blaine his whole life? Did Blaine just make that up? Was he seeing something that wasn't there?

Was he seeing something he'd wanted to see?

A knock on the window in front of him rouses him from his musing, and he huffs. _Probably just Santana_ , he thinks, _done with her ice cream and acting like he's the one holding them up_. Blaine glances up, ready to mouth the words _I'm coming!_ and there he is, smiling and waving at the glass.

Blaine's Adonis on rollerblades.

From what Blaine can see, he has them on today, along with the same white shorts and tank top from yesterday. Blaine stands there, mouth hanging open, but before he can say anything, the man takes off, zipping at incredible speed towards the park.

"Wait! Wait!" Blaine screams, taking off after him …

… slamming head first into the glass door, and falling backwards onto the floor.

The resulting wallop, like a boulder hitting a brick wall, attracts the attention of every patron in the place, and they groan sympathetically, with the exception of Santana, still licking her ice cream with a nonchalance that comes from having known better. But a determined Blaine rushes to his feet – which is less any actual rushing and more trying to remain upright for longer than five seconds. And when he accomplishes that, he takes off out the door, blissfully optimistic even though all available evidence tells him he has to have lost the man already, who had a head start, and is obviously a much better skater.

Blaine heads straight for the park, shooting through traffic without stopping for the light, almost causing a three car collision when he slides through the intersection like a bat out of hell. He stumbles over the curb but keeps his feet, missing the start of the jogging path and rolling for a few yards through the soft grass. But through all of that misfortune, luck still seems to be on his side as he looks up and sees him, leisurely blading through the park, slower than before as if he's purposefully waiting for Blaine to catch up.

Blaine puts on a burst of speed in an attempt to get to the man, clipping curves in the trail when his blades refuse to do what he wants, the bolts on the wheels gunked up with grass.

"Wait!" he calls after the man. "Wait! I need to know why …" He trips over a rock and nearly falls on his face. Anxiety lodges the question about the kiss in his throat, making room for a fear for his life. So he skips ahead to his next question: "I just … I need to know … your name. Just … tell me your name!"

"It's Kurt," the voice … _that_ voice … that heavenly voice … says from suddenly right beside him.

"K-Kurt?" Blaine repeats, turning his head to look at him – so close, and yet, so far, since Blaine keeps moving and the man stands still.

"A-ha. Watch your step," Kurt says with a giggle.

A giggle because Blaine doesn't turn back in time to see where he's going, which ends up being over a small retaining wall and straight into the Auglaize River.


	3. The Unamusement Park

**A/N: Written for the prompt 'carnival/amusement park'.**

"Right, left, right, left, stroke, stroke, and hold … nice, guys! Very nice, Erick … Jamie … Ryan, raise that leg a little bit higher … Chelsea, good … Steven … and Mr. Anderson. You're doing beautifully."

"Th-thank you, Mrs. Gunderson," Blaine says, transitioning into crossovers. He checks his arms, barely getting his left foot over his right as he comes around the curve. He holds his breath, finally completing a lap without face planting into the grass, and from behind him, and small group of onlookers cheer.

It's another gorgeous, sunny afternoon, and once again, Blaine finds himself in the park. But this time, instead of sitting around, fists balled in frustration as he watches the world spin by, his one dream slipping farther and farther out of reach with every rotation, he's participating in life. No more riding a bench, waiting for inspiration to strike. He doesn't have to. Ideas flood his brain so rapidly that by the time he'd finished writing (starting the evening after he met Kurt, and continuing the following evening after his impromptu swim), he had five new songs and the full score to his musical almost completely written … and it had only been two days! He'd even managed to polish off that damned jingle and email it to the agency that handled Lysol's accounts. They wired him his money, and that was that.

He's officially off the jingle market.

All that's left for him to do is get an agent.

He'd sent out feelers, even going so far as to text his brother for some leads. (Cooper _was_ the actor in the family, after all.) But in the meantime, he's taking up a hobby.

While he was floating in the river, trying to find his footing against the rocky embankment (not easy while wearing inline skates), he came across a neon yellow flier, soaking wet and plastered to a large rock. It wasn't in a place where anyone walking by could easily see it, and with the massive amount of sharp rocks lining this portion of the shore, no one would choose here to go for a swim.

Considering everything that had happened to him in the past couple of days, he could almost believe that it had been posted on that rock specifically for him to see.

 _Looking for a new way to exercise **and** have fun this summer?_

 _Learn to skate!_

 _Professional instruction in a fun and comfortable atmosphere!_

 _Inline skaters and quad skaters welcome!_

 _Ages 4 to adult._

 _Monday thru Friday from ten to noon._

 _Go to for more information!_

Drenched to the bone and with flier in hand, Blaine went back to Dick's Sporting Goods. He returned the too big skates (which he was surprised he could do seeing as they were not only used, but saturated with filthy river water) and was preparing to go to another store in search of a pair that would fit when, as luck would have it, the salesperson – a flirty and accommodating young woman by the name of Tina – found a pair hiding in the back in Blaine's exact size. She also convinced him to buy a pair of wrist guards and a helmet to protect 'the adorable curls on his head'.

Blaine arrived at the park the following day right when classes started. He was torn between trying his hand at skating there to see if he really needed the lessons, or waiting till he got there to put on his skates. Skating was winning, but when he remembered his death-defying parlay with traffic between the ice cream parlor and the park, he decided he wanted to live instead. It shouldn't take him long to pick it up though, he reasoned. All he needed was a refresher on the basics – maintaining his balance, going forward, possibly turning around. Thirty minutes tops, then he'd be tooling around the park, searching for Kurt.

He ended up staying the entire two hours.

And by the looks of it, he's the only adult that signed up.

At the beginning, he got some suspicious looks from the parents gathered round to watch their children skate, certain that he was the man Chris Hansen has been warning them about on _To Catch a Predator_. But after he strapped on his birth control helmet, then promptly fell half a dozen times, they seemed confident he wasn't there to snatch one of their kids and make a quick getaway.

And they began cheering him on.

Blaine doesn't necessarily _want_ to learn to rollerblade. With every bump on the pavement that he hits, with every stumble-and-catch, he has terrifying flashbacks. But he desperately wants to see Kurt again. He _needs_ to see him. The man with the pinstripe skates and the disarming smile is the source of Blaine's newfound inspiration. Blaine is sure of that, and he doesn't want to let him get away. He's scared what could happen if he never sees the man again. Would the spring of ideas overflowing his brain dry up? Would he end up back where he started, sitting on a park bench, writing the newest catchy tune for Playtex's Sport Tampon campaign?

No. _That_ he refuses to do.

Move forward. No looking back.

Blaine can't assume that Kurt would ever trade in his skates for a pair of jogging shoes just so that Blaine can keep up with him. If this was going to be a thing with them, Blaine might as well learn to skate.

"Okay, boys and girls … and Mr. Anderson … why don't we give three-turns a try?"

"Yay! Alright!" the excited kids whoop.

Blaine contemplates between giving it a go and cutting and running. He'd seen Mrs. Gunderson demonstrating these earlier, and they didn't look _too_ hard. But, according to her online bio, she's been skating professionally for over seventeen years.

At the rate Blaine is going, he has a good chance of mastering this move some time after he's dead.

"Okay" - Mrs. Gunderson gets into position with her arms outstretched - "start out with your feet in a T, push off, ride the circle, then pivot and turn."

Blaine watches as ten fearless kids get into position, push off in unison, then simultaneously perform the turn as if they'd been doing it since birth. Meanwhile, Blaine had yet to get his feet to form a T. They're locked in a lopsided V, and they seem content to stay that way.

"Oh boy," he mutters, sliding his right heel to the instep of his left foot, his wheels scraping the ground. When he gets there, it puts an awkward bow in his knees and forces him to sit in his hips. The kids get into this position effortlessly, and look graceful performing it.

Blaine, however, looks constipated.

He pushes off, traveling at half the speed of everyone else. "Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy," he chants as supportive onlookers start a chorus of, "Blaine! Blaine! Blaine! Blaine!" But he has to block them out to concentrate on the move coming up, his body more prepared for it than his brain. _Here it comes_ , he thinks, stiffening as he over-anticipates the turn. _Pivot, and turn_. Blaine makes a solid effort at pivoting, wrenching the lower half of his body in opposition to his upper half. And his hips actually manage to turn … but the rest of his body doesn't, leaving him to finish with his legs crossed one over the other, locked together at the ankles. He tries to pull them apart so he can put one foot securely down and stop, but he only succeeds in performing a wonky half turn, which would have been fine except that the second he loses momentum, he teeters over and ends up on his hands and knees in the grass.

"Oh!" his small crowd of cheerleaders groan, much like the patrons of the ice cream parlor the day before.

He's beginning to sense a trend.

"Oh, whoops, Mr. Anderson." Mrs. Gunderson laughs. "A little more pivot and a little less turn next time."

"Yeah, okay," Blaine mumbles bitterly, climbing to one knee. "That's _super_ helpful advice there …"

"Here, let me help you," a voice says, and a hand reaches for his.

"Thanks." Blaine takes the hand without a clue to whom it belongs. He would have caught on if he hadn't been so humiliated - his ears ringing, his cheeks beginning to burn. It doesn't dawn on him until after he takes the offered hand and gets pulled to his feet, sparks igniting the moment their palms touch. Blaine looks up wide-eyed into the smiling face of Kurt. He looks just as radiant as he did the day before, his skin glowing in the sunlight. He's wearing a light blue tank top this time, the shade a paler reflection of his complex eyes.

Kurt dusts Blaine off – the grass from his palms, the dirt from his knees, some non-existent dust from his shoulders. Then he adjusts the helmet on his head, jarred slightly askew from the fall. "Nice helmet," he giggles, giving its smooth, black surface a soft knock.

"K-Kurt?"

"The one and only," he says, striking a pose.

"I've …. I've been looking for you everywhere!" Blaine says, in awe of the fact that they're speaking more than three words to one another.

"Have you?"

"Yes. I … I wanted to talk to you."

"Why?"

"I need to ask you something."

"Ooo." Kurt pulls a face. "I don't really do questions."

"Please? Just one? There's something I need to know."

Kurt taps a finger against his chin, rolling his eyes to the sky as if in serious thought. "Hmm … okay."

"O-okay?" Blaine chokes.

"A-ha. But you have to catch me first!" Kurt spins on the toe of his right skate and, with a flip of his hair, takes off toward the jogging path.

"What!?" Blaine takes off after him. He doesn't even think about it; his body just goes. He doesn't know if that's a good thing or not. "Not this again!"

"Come on, Blaine! Don't be a spoiled sport! You could use the exercise!"

Blaine's hands come up reflexively to cradle his stomach. Sure, it's a little softer now than it has been in previous years, but he's been in a rut, trading salads for burgers as he struggled to make sense of his life. "Hey! That's a low …" But in the middle of his defensive comeback, something strikes him like an ice cold brick to the brain. "You-you know my name?"

"Nu-uh! No questions till you catch up!"

Blaine follows where Kurt leads through the throng of afternoon joggers, a mass unusual for a Thursday afternoon. Blaine does his best to dodge and weave while simultaneously remaining upright, knees bent the way Mrs. Gunderson showed him. But regardless of his attempts at perfect posture, he hunches over, and his arms swing wildly at his sides. Every so often, he pops his head up to make sure he's still on the right path and catches a glimpse of the top of Kurt's head, his immaculately coifed hair unruffled by the breeze. Kurt spins around. When he sees Blaine, he smiles, waves, then turns back in the direction they're going.

Kurt veers to the left, down a narrower path that doesn't have as much foot traffic as the one they're on. The crowds thin as they skate further into the trees, towards a desolate area of the park that Blaine has never ventured into before. They must be nearing the end of their chase. Kurt must be taking pity on him. Blaine will get Kurt alone and then …

… who knows? He might be able to get a few questions answered. Who is Kurt? Where did he come from?

And how does he know Blaine's name?

Blaine doesn't realize how wrong he is until they pass through a dense row of elms. He loses sight of Kurt, but Kurt has to have gone this way. There's nowhere else to go. If he'd left the path, Blaine would have heard him. There's very little grass to the left or right of them. Dry, brittle leaves carpet the ground. But Blaine hears no crunching, so Kurt has to be somewhere ahead of him. The paved path ends, spitting them out onto a gravelly dirt road.

Or _him_ since, when Blaine gets there, he's alone. There are no joggers, no skaters, no children …

… and no Kurt.

He stands stock still and silent, listening for any hint that Kurt might be around. But Blaine doesn't hear anything but the leaves rustling behind him as the wind moves through them, emphasizing a silence so deep, it's downright unnatural. Blaine moves forward slowly, walking since the ground isn't smooth enough to skate on. He sweeps his gaze around, trying to get a grasp on where he is. This ... wherever this is … looks more like an old abandoned parking lot than a part of the park. Trees shield his view on three sides, ushering him in one direction where strange, metal figures melt into the dirt, dragged to the depths by twining vines that have sprung up from the earth with the single goal of bringing them under.

He debates calling out Kurt's name, or even breathing too loudly. He feels like he's stepped into a scene from an eighties slasher flick. He needs to get out of there before a man in a hockey mask hops out from behind a tree and starts hacking him to death with an ax. But before he can turn around and go back the way he came, he hears a loud, sustained _squeeeeeak_ come from somewhere amidst the twisted heaps and overgrown foliage.

"Hello?" he calls out cautiously. "Kurt? Are you … are you there?"

He picks his way past the metal forms, recognizing them for what they are as he comes closer.

Rides, like the kind he's seen at rickety pop-up carnivals as a kid, when he and his parents spent their summers roaming around the country, visiting the kitschy, touristy traps that everyone should see before they die.

He hears the _squeeeeeak_ again, followed by a responding, rusty _squiiiiirk_. It's a sound that travels straight from Blaine's ears to his blood. He stops moving and gulps hard.

 _Squeeeeeak-squiiiiirk … squeeeeeak-squiiiiirk_ repeats like a morbid ditty. Blaine inches forward on resistant wheels, meandering through rotting tree stumps and stepping over decaying posts until he comes to the source of the sound – a rocking horse, swaying with the breeze. Blaine puts a hand on it to halt it, and the sound ceases immediately.

But another sound takes its place.

An odd shuffling, like feet sliding across a linoleum floor.

Blaine doesn't see Kurt anywhere, but he knows he's not alone. The hairs on the nape of his neck begin to rise, but he ventures on. He's come this far – for Kurt, for answers. He has to take the chance that the footsteps he hears belong to him. Kurt seems to enjoy teasing him. It would seem like him to hide out in this creepy amusement park, lie in wait, and then pounce on Blaine when he least expects it.

Then again, he could be long gone, and Blaine could be willingly walking into the lair of Michael Myers.

"Kurt?" Blaine tries again. He hears another shuffling of feet, but this time he's more confused than concerned. If eight years in show choir has taught him anything, it's to recognize the bouncy hop step of a shuffle-ball-change by ear.

Whoever is there with him, serial killer or not, they're dancing.

"Hello?" Blaine says, and this time, he gets an answer.

"Hello yourself!"

Blaine sighs, disappointed.

It's not Kurt.

"Who … who are you?" he asks, hoping the voice will continue answering so he can locate its owner.

"Who are _you_?"

"I asked you first."

"I asked you second."

" _Everyone's a comedian_ ," Blaine grumbles as he turns a corner and comes upon a narrow, rectangular stage at the foot of a small bandstand. The flooring is cracked in several places and looks dusty as hell, but the man tapping across its surface doesn't seem to mind. Blaine steps sideways over roots and branches, watching the man pivot on the ball of his left foot, spinning smoothly to rival Fred Astaire.

"Hey" – Blaine stops a foot from the edge – "you're pretty good."

"Why, thank you." The man stops with a flourish and takes a bow. "You must be lost. Most people don't end up here unless they are."

"I guess I am." Blaine examines the man discreetly, from his light brown hair, greying a touch at the temples; to his stylish sweater vest; and down his slacks to his brown and beige saddle shoes. If Blaine had to guess, he'd say this man was a professor of sorts, maybe a lit teacher, moonlighting as a tap dancer. "Did you happen to see a guy on rollerblades come through here?"

"As a matter of fact, I have," the man says, smiling warmly.

Blaine smiles. Finally! "Great! Where is he?"

"Standing right in front of me."

Blaine's smile drops. "Ha-ha," he says, trying to sound as unamused as possible, but when the man throws his head back and laughs, it's genuine, infectious, and Blaine can't help laughing, too. "I mean _besides_ me."

"Nah. Sorry. Can't say that I have." The man steps forward, hand extended. "I'm Will. Will Schuester."

"Blaine Anderson," he says, shaking his hand.

"Well, Blaine Anderson, you're a bit far off the beaten path. What are you doing all the way out here?"

"I was following someone." Blaine takes off his helmet, feeling a bit like a toddler with it on. A chill skips across his scalp and he shivers. He hadn't realized just how much he'd been sweating. "I wanted to ask him a question, but he took off and … uh …" He cuts himself short when he realizes how little sense he's making "… it's kind of a long story." Blaine looks around, re-assessing the creepiness of his surroundings with the addition of this person there with him. "What is this place?"

"This," Will announces cheerfully with arms open wide, "is The Lima Showmen's Carnival."

"Really?" Blaine looks at the crumbling structures, falling to pieces in front of his eyes. "Was it a big deal or something? Because I don't remember ever hearing about it."

"It's been shut down for a few decades," Will explains, running the toe of his shoe through the dirt covering the neglected dance floor. "It may not look like much of anything now, but this used to be one of the hottest spots in Lima. When it first opened, people came from all over to see the attractions here. It helped put Lima on the map. You would think the historical society would want to preserve it, but ..." He shrugs as if the desolation surrounding him is a sign of his own personal defeat.

"It would have been nice to see this place open in its heyday," Blaine comments, looking over this forgotten playground and seeing it with new appreciation. "If anything, it would have been nice growing up around here with this in our backyard. The last time I went to an amusement park, I was sixteen, and dressed as a purple dinosaur."

Will chuckles – the kind, understanding laugh of a man who's probably worked around kids in some capacity the majority of his life. Blaine recognizes that laugh. His favorite teachers had it. "The rides were a death trap, to tell you the truth. Aside from the tried and true – the Merry-Go-Round, the Tilt-A-Whirl, and whatnot – they didn't get much better over time. But come look at this." Will leaves the stage, stepping onto the dirt as if stepping out of a different time.

Seeing him away from that stage feels stunningly incongruous.

He leads Blaine further into the park, pausing after a few steps to make sure Blaine can keep up in his skates. They eventually reach a gated-off area that has Blaine doing a double-take. How in the hell has he lived in Lima most of his life and missed _this_? "It had this amazing amphitheater," Will says, gesturing to a stage the likes of which Blaine has only seen visiting his brother out in California, when they went to see Kristin Chenoweth perform at the Hollywood Bowl. "And it held one of the biggest music festivals in all of Ohio."

Blaine frowns at the weeds growing up through the seats, the cracks in the cement, the fading paint, the signs of age and abuse. He can't imagine the money the city would need to fix this place up, but the revenue it could potentially bring in would be phenomenal. "Why did it stop?"

"Sue Sylvester," Will replies in a tight tone. "She used to be the cheerleading coach at McKinley High School back when I taught there. She hated Glee Club and theater with a passion, and did everything in her power to cut their funding. She went on to become principal, and then ran for Congress on a platform of cutting the arts in Ohio. I fought her tooth and nail, but it was no use. Arts programs in schools were already hanging on by a thread. She managed to convince people that the arts were a waste of time and money when it came to competing academically with other countries, and just like that …" He snaps for emphasis "… that thread was cut. When she won that seat, this carnival was the first thing she scrapped." Blaine watches Will's eyes go cloudy, and he can't help the feeling that the story of Sue Sylvester and this carnival … and _him_ … doesn't end there, but nostalgia has taken hold. Will is seeing something that isn't there, that hasn't been for a long time, and he shakes his head at the pity of it. "I'll tell you somethin', kid …" Will puts his hands on his hips and sighs "… I'd do _anything_ to reopen this place … bring the music back."

Blaine turns from Will to the stage in front of them, and suddenly he can see it in his head, the way he thinks Will is picturing it now – bright lights, an intimate ensemble, jazzy music, rides and games and laughter and just plain fun. But his brain adds a few details of its own – ones that Blaine doesn't intentionally include, but that pop into his head nonetheless. He sees himself sitting at a baby grand piano while Will performs, singing and dancing a retro Sinatra routine, while beside him on the piano bench sits Kurt, watching him tickle the ivories, that magical voice of his humming in his ear. In a flash, Blaine sees Kurt's blue eyes in front of him, but for only a moment, long enough for him to question whether or not he's there. And in that flash, Blaine hears the music. He smells the cotton candy and the popcorn. He sees an audience stretched out before him.

He feels Kurt's hand on his knee, feels his body heat as he leans into his side and whispers in his ear the words Blaine ends up saying out loud.

"Maybe I can help."


End file.
